


The Smell of Decay

by Rachrar



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachrar/pseuds/Rachrar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America walked into his home, the party to celebrate the end of the Cold War silent but for music. Rather than the joy of friends partying meeting his eyes, he saw them all dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Decay

"Ahh~!" America yawned on his return trip home, stretching up an arm as he walked. He had gone over to say hi to Canada and maybe get him to come over, but the soft-spoken nation had been gone. Probably visiting France. America chuckled at the thought, remembering when France, in his own flamboyant way, had announced that he was dating Canada. What chaos! England had been so angry. "He's practically your son! He even calls you papa! You frog, you just can't do that!" America, for his part, had just laughed. Not like he cared, and it seemed that the usually promiscuous France had settled a bit with Canada, so it was all good. Canada was finally getting noticed, after all, right? So he was happy. America smiled absently, his thoughts returning to the present and hearing his stomach growling. He was hungry and needed to eat! He picked up his pace a bit, then came upon his home a little while later.

He had been gone for a few hours, leaving a pretty rowdy party he had set up for the other nations to celebrate the end of the Cold War. America's house was one of the biggest, and seeing as the biggest, Russia's, was buried in snow, everybody had agreed that a party at America's house would be better. He tilted his head in thought, tapping his chin as he thought of who had actually arrived; Germany, Prussia, China, Mexico (pretty little latina girl but with some feisty spice), Russia (of course), Belarus, Ukraine, Italy, England, Canada and France might have arrived as America left, and, last but certainly not least, Japan.

America smiled to himself at the thought of Japan; the wonderful Asian nation he loved so. Alfred and Kiku, at least, were the ones in love. Japan, unfortunately, was still confined to his wheelchair after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki incident, which he claimed to have forgiven America for. War was war, and some things were unavoidable when America's leader demanded that Japan be bombed. He was sorry for it, and Japan understood. At least, as far as America knew. It hadn't impeded their relationship to his knowledge.

America's sapphire hues fell upon the white mansion he called his home, but something was off. It was too quiet for a party to be going on; there was just music, but no talking. Something alerted America to be wary, his hand immediately going to his side for his gun, however, his hand touched an empty holster. He had left his gun at home in respect for Canada's no gun policy, but now he cursed it. Something was not right and America was feeling uneasy.

He approached his house warily, then placed his hand on the doorknob lightly, the brass metal feeling cold to his touch. His other hand reached up to hold the door as he pushed lightly, twisting the handle with minimal noise, peeking for a moment before full out blasting open the door. Music surged to meet his ears, a soft song of loss that had put on for England and one of England's favorites. As he looked within, the white door swinging open to reveal the front hall bit by bit, he gasped in utter horror.

His eyes fell first upon China, the old, powerful nation bent backwards in a bridge, his dark hair in a mess, but that was not what was odd. He did his tai chi thing and that had lead to some awkward positions, but this was... just unnatural. The light from outside flashed on metal and drew America's gaze to the nation's chest; a simple katana had been impaled through the Asian's chest, pinning him back into the odd position. America ran forward in horror, his feet clanking upon metal. He looked down in slight fear, but he was greeted by the cold sheen of metal. China was still holding his katana, albeit weakly, as though he had been fighting, the ribbon usually tied about his hair cut in two cleanly. Nicks and cuts were all over his body, the noble green clothing cuts to pieces about his frame, face determined but with the knowledge of defeat written all over his expression. America gulped, blue eyes bulging from shock, then turned to the rest of the hallway in fear of what he would next encounter.

Two corpses greeted his sight, burned so badly that no distinguishing marks were seen. America held back some bile that threatened to rise in his throat, walking closer to discern what had gone on. All the decorations within the hall had been broken in what was evidently a powerful struggle, but it was seen that the strong men had fallen to whatever menace had done it. He crouched down to see that the two were both evidently male, the larger on the ground in what was obviously a previously dead pose, the second, smaller but well built male, holding him as though he had tried to waken the larger, but had been killed and collapsed on the other.

A splotch of burnt color lay upon their bodies, slight pieces of green clinging to the larger and blue to the smaller, iron crosses dotting the ground about them as though they had been part of the clothing that had burned. America gasped yet again; Germany and Prussia? Who was powerful enough to had done such a thing to the formidable duo? Sure, Prussia was no longer a nation and he had weakened, but Germany was still extremely strong. America swallowed hard to keep his lunch down from the stench of burnt flesh and cloth, standing up and covering his nose and mouth. He looked more down the hall and saw yet another corpse, her fallen pose making it clear who she was.

A small chuckle forced itself free of America's lips at her pose, Mexico having fallen to her knees, arms at her side still clutching her signature knives between her fingers. Even now, she looked fierce and ready to fight, but her fight was over. The girl looked as though the opponent had toyed with her, numerous cuts dotting her body and a pool of blood giving last cause of death; her throat was slit. Her face was still defiant though, a daring snarl across her dark features. Her long brown hair was flecked with blood as was her pink dress, though it was more red now, the congealed blood beneath her having seeped through to stain the beautiful fabric, the white lace trimmings scarlet.

America turned from the sight, terrified to open any of the adjoining doors, where the party had split off into, afraid of meeting more death. He walked back, skirting past the German pair with care not to touch their roasted skin. He opened the white door that lead to the guest room, eyes downcast in hope of finding no blood upon the floor. He let out a relieved sigh when none greeted his gaze, but his voice hitched as he raised his sapphire hues. It was– it was impossible. Nobody could do that. He was– was invincible. Apparently not, it seemed.

Russia was pinned to the wall in a cross formation, body peppered with knives that held his body up, head lolling forward. A bare part of his expression was able to be seen, but it was clear that it was Russia's terrifying smile, the one he wore when he felt his sisters were threatened. It was the smile that let everybody know that Russia was plotting their deaths and from the insanity so bright in the wide grin, the murder's death would have been eminent had Russia not been defeated.

Blood dripped steadily down the wall, running red rivers down the wood paneling. His scarf, too, was pinned up to the wall, but with great care, the cuts holding it up clean and untorn whereas the others, especially on his hands, were haphazard, as though Russia had not yet died when he was pinned. His hands were a mess, the bones clearly seen. A small touch and the holes created by Russia's struggles would allow his hands to slide off with a sickly plop, but America dared not touch, though he did notice that Russia's right hand clutched tightly at a bloody and torn Russian flag, the white, red, and blue shredded and black with dried blood.

America almost missed the other body laying at Russia's feet, hidden by the bed from the view of the door, but as he walked forward, he saw her. She looked so peaceful that if it were not for the gaping hole in her skull, one could assume that Ukraine were sleeping. Her hands clutched at Russia's scarf, a step closer and America saw that Russia's scarf had been ripped, half pinned to the wall, half in Ukraine's hands. Her blond hair was saturated with the blood of the man hanging above her, her clothing flecked with black of the dried liquid. America turned his eyes to the left, hoping that somebody would have hidden in the closet and been saved, but the blood puddle and hole in the door dispelled this hope.

America took a few steps forward, his shoes making a wet sound when he stepped in the unavoidable pool of blood around the two bodies, hand opening the door delicately. It turned so easily that America was startled; there was weight helping it in its momentum. He braced himself, but could only yelp in surprise and jump back as somebody tumbled forward with a nasty cracking sound to fall to the ground hard, blond locks whispering tales of hiding and hope of surprise. Belarus was dead too, the method clear to America, due to his extensive knowledge of weaponry. The back of her head had been blown apart, the back of the closet a splattered mess of brain matter and blood, and America was sure that if he were to turn her, a small hole would be dead center of her forehead. He backed away, fearful, turning tail and running out of the room down the hall and up the stairs. Somebody had to be alive!

His footsteps were the only sound echoing through the large space, the house suddenly too big for America. He froze when he entered the hallway above the one in the first floor, a flash of memory of what he had seen overlaying the hall he really saw for a moment. His breath hitched, but the vision passed to reveal– an empty hallway. It was the twin of the one below, and it had tricked America for a moment into seeing the dead bodies of his friends again, but it passed. America walked slowly, so as to not scare any who may yet live, opening the door to his right carefully. It wold have been the dining room, as there was not enough room on the first floor for the room. The first floor was for guests, the second for the actual upkeep of the home and the third was for those high in America's favor and himself. His breath hissed back in from the suction, the two blonds meeting America's gaze so opposite and yet so meant for each other, dead in the same room.

Canada was on the ground, curled up tightly underneath his red and white flag, the cloth unharmed, not even bloodied. America entered the room, hand leaving a red stain upon the brass doorknob before taking a closer look, a sort of morbid curiosity compelling him to gaze upon his brother. He looked asleep, America's heart soared with hope that it might be Canada faking death, but when he touched Canada's shoulder, it was too cold. He pushed lightly to turn the male over to reveal his face, biting his lip. The only sense of death was a small trail of blood from the corner of Canada's mouth. He let go, and Canada's body flopped to his back, stopping at an angle. America leaned over to see and sighed. It was Kumajiro, the loyal bear having curled up beside his master in a sleeping pose, though death emanated from him as well.

America stood from a crouch he had not remembered dropping into, wiping his hands off on tan trousers, leaving crimson streaks. He turned towards the table of the dining room, recoiling and almost tripping over the body of his brother on the slick linoleum before righting himself, leaning upon the nearby wall. France's clear blue eyes looked up to America from the ground, his head separated from his body in a clean slice, face hurt and longing, almost as though he was worried about something else when he had died.

A quick look up confirmed America's thoughts, the headless body that had once been France sitting at the table, but right arm outstretched towards Canada's position. He had apparently gone to save the other but had been killed too quickly to so more than begin to stand, a rose fallen to the table without thought, cast away in favor of reaching for his lover. The man's torso was leaning upon the table at an angle, a French flag draped about his shoulders, covering the ugly wound the beheading had left. It had evidently been placed around France's neck before his head had been removed, the springy fabric had moved with the extra room to cover the neck, but the blood still dripping from the table made it obvious that it had been fairly recently; more recently than the first floor deaths at least. There, the blood has congealed and dried; here, it was still drying.

America's eyes teared up. Sure, they weren't as close as, say, England or Japan, but it still hurt to seem them dead. He gasped harshly, downcast gaze rising to the third floor with a harsh gasp. Arthur! Kiku! America fled the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

Back in the hall, small details were made large, but he was not concerned with that, instead, he ran up the stairs quickly. A tiny fleck of blood upon the ground was suddenly seen before the room Arthur usually stayed in when he visited. America approached with trepidation, tears forming before he even opened the door. They fell upon sight of the man, his big brother, dead. America walked forward without thought, dropping to his knees to hug the dead body to his chest, a vestige of warmth still within the body, mocking America with the hope of life. But the room took it away.

Blood was everywhere, every meticulously chosen knick-knack, each carefully picked object broken upon the ground. There had been a great struggle, it was clear, England's thin rapier broken very deliberately next to the Briton's body. It had obviously been snapped repeatedly, one piece at a time to create a scattering of the sharp weapon everywhere. England was upon his knees, wrists bound behind his back, but, even in death, his poise was perfect, back straight. Alfred's shoulders shook as tears rolled down his face, holding the body of his mentor, his Big Bro, to his chest, and he cried, mourning the loss of Arthur, the man who was both friend and parent to him. As he moved Arthur, something fell from the other's hands to the ground with a loud clatter. Alfred looked, blinking away sight-compromising tears to pick up the object.

It was a picture, a small four by six of Alfred and Arthur, was back when he was young and still England's colony. It was a simple picture, a small painting done by a master artist at his prime before the man faded to obscurity. It was Arthur sitting down, watching Alfred gesticulate wildy into the air, telling him about some plan or another to be a big hero when he was older. Alfred's lips quivered as he took in details of the picture, the setting sun shining through the large window to lay on the wooden desk of Arthur's study, Arthur's bemused and amused expression compared to how Alfred's was so excited. It was a fine picture, probably cost Arthur a lot of money, but it was worth it. It was a memory that deserved to be cherished and Arthur apparently agreed, having protected it to his death.

Some time later, Alfred was coherent once more. Determination surged to find the man who did it and kill him with his own hands. He released England to the ground gently, as though holding something precious, careful not to cause trauma. England had seemingly died of blood loss as well, the amount of blood around the room making the theory plausible. As America set the Briton down, one last tear falling to darken the green of his vestments, he looked to England's face, confused by the expression for a moment; a snarky, knowing smirk. America had seen it before, but where–?

A moment later, he remembered. It was when America had been looking all about the house for some small object he had lost, back when America had played pranks with Australia on England. England had really turned the tables then, taking America's toy soldiers and hiding them. Each time America spoke to the older, England had worn the same smirk while denying he knew of the whereabouts of the toys; a knowledgeable, pleased smirk, the smile that said "Haha, you'll never get what you're looking for."

America puzzled over it for a moment more, then reached down with trembling hands to pick up a piece of England's flag, a tiny shred of the Union Jack. He took a deep breath, then shoved the cloth in a pocket along with the picture. It was going to be his memorial. America left the room, eyes still hurting with pushed back tears, but he took another deep breath to pull himself together before pausing outside his own room. The door was slightly ajar, and America's pushed on it lightly, ready for just about anything at this point, but what met his eyes made him retch, made his stomach flip and turn, made him double over and vomit upon the floor from the monstrosity that had occurred to the man in the wheelchair.

A single gash tore open Japan's– Kiku's snow white uniform from left shoulder to opposite hip, but that was not all, oh no. It was as though whatever blade had done it to Kiku had also had some sort of poison, a flesh eating, decaying disease, for Kiku looked... terrible. His hands were mere bones with pieces of flesh holding on stubbornly, his legs relatively fine, but they were covered by the pants, so it could have been worse. His stomach was a mess of decay, inner organs spilling out of the cut to rest upon his left, intestines falling to the floor like a macabre rope. The sickly sweet smell of rot was pervasive, invading America's nose. Kiku's face, however, was more horrifying still.

The beautiful, Asian face with those gorgeous, heart-melting chocolate eyes was rotting, eyes closed and jaw fallen from the decay that set into his features. Muscle showed through the peeling skin, strips having fallen off and landed on the white cloth of Kiku's lap. After Alfred controlled his retching, he cried again, for the loss of a lover. His tears were hot as they ran down his face, following channels created by the older tears caused by England, but he could not close his eyes to the sight. He sniffled hard, trying to reunite himself, but he failed miserably and simply cried all the more.

Eventually, he was able to look up, his mind knowing that the killer could very well be there still. It was a miracle that he had not yet been killed, as vulnerable as he was, crying over Kiku and Arthur. He choked back sobs that threatened to break free again, standing weakly. Japan's flag was upon the ground next to the man, the cloth fallen to the ground in a heap to hide the red circle within. America raised his eyes to look at Japan, forcing himself to investigate to see if he could find out anything new.

Japan's left hand was upon the hilt of his weapon, his plain katana, but it was fallen to the ground, broken in half, the other half unseen. Japan had likely gone to drawn it to fight, even as confined as he was to the chair, and the way the sword had broken made it seem as though Japan had it half drawn when a much larger sword had simply snapped it and caused the hilt half to fall to the ground at Japan's feet.

America turned away from the body, his eyes passing over his own items; the stars and stripes pinned to the wall, an X cut into the cloth, his bed with its star-speckled sky covering practically shredded, as was any patriotic item in his room. It was impossible for Japan to have done it, so America had to assume that it was the work of the killer. He bit his lip in thought. Though confused, he would figure it out, and he would not rest til the son of a bitch who did it was dead. He turned towards the door, seeing some objects upon the floor, light, immaterial things. It had been some sort of barricade, it seemed. Kiku had tried to hide himself away in America's room, apparently, one last hope of safety in the room of his lover. But the murderer had barged through, breaking the weak barricade down to the ground.

America wiped away a last tear, then left the room with heavy steps, tromping up the last set of stairs to the attic in what seemed a vain hope to find somebody alive. When he was in the dusty, musty room though, soft whimpers and sobs broke the silence.

"V-ve~! D-D-Doitsu!" The whimpers cried out, but when America stepped forward to try and find out the cause, he stepped on a stick blown in by the wind through the broken window and a loud crack! resounded through the small space. The whimpers immediately stopped.

"I-Italy?" America asked tentatively. "Is that you?" He walked around a tall stack of boxes to see the corner. Italy was there, curled up in a ball and crying. He was dusty from the dirt of the rarely entered room, but his face had two perfectly clean channels of perpetually flowing tears down his cheeks.

"America!" The young man leapt to his feet and ran over, enveloping America in a tight hug, crying. "Is D-Doitsu alright? He told me to run, ve~! I wanted to stay, but-but he made me leave, and I was scared and it smells weird and– and– Ve ve ve~!" Italy's tic increased with his emotion, voice going a mile a minute, the idea of the Germany's death just tearing the poor boy apart. To lose one who he loved, again, after losing Grandpa Rome, long ago or not, was hard on him.

America hugged back just as tightly, letting out a soft sigh of sadness. "No, Italy. Germany is... is dead." He said, wishing it were anything but true. Italy had looked so hopeful, his eyes glowing with the prospect of the powerful nation to come to his aid, but when America denied his dream, he broke into tears again. Eventually, Italy too had to stop his tears, and the duo left the attic, holding hands tightly so as to not lose the other. On reaching the second floor and the clean hallway, America had Italy turn away, opening a small broom closet were cleaning supplies were left. Nothing dead or alive was within, so he turned Italy back to face it.

"Here, Italy, hide in here. I'll go, I'll go investigate, alright?" He tried to smile. After all, now that there was somebody around for America to protect, he had to be a hero. He had to make sure Italy was going to be alright while he went to try and figure out just what the hell happened. With Italy about, America had to be brave, strong, the person to rely on. He would do it and he would find out what happened, and most of all, why.

Italy nodded weakly, submissive to the core. "O-okay, America. Be careful, ve~!" He cautioned before closing the door and sliding as far from the portal as was possible, quiet as he could be, hands over his mouth to cover the sound of his breath and whimpers of "ve" that couldn't seem to cease. America steeled himself as he turned from the door, knowing that this was going to be the most difficult thing he ever had to do. He had to find out what had done it, at least order of deaths, and why.

About an hour later, as night began to fall, America returned to the second floor, exhausted physically and emotionally, but he was not going to stay in the house of death his home had become. The closest neighbor was Canada, so they would just go spend the night at Canada's house, the comforting aura of the place always making him relax, though America was sure that sleep would not come easily. He had found out remarkably little, only that Belarus had been killed before the other Russian duo, the first floor deaths were the first, the second floor second, and third he assumed last, but he was unable to go look at the dead bodies of Arthur and Kiku again. It would just break him.

He paused outside the closet, speaking quietly. "Italy, it's America, alright?" He opened the door and Italy moved out, eyes wide with fear that faded upon sight of the American. America would make it better, Italy was sure.

"Okay." He answered, moving form his tight position in the farthest corner, struggling slightly to get free, he had pushed himself so far back that it was hard to get out. America reached out a hand to assist, leaning on the doorframe to support himself. Sapphire eyes that were normally so animated were dull and weak, their sparkle of joy and life gone. Italy reached forward to take the proffered strong hand, his small fingers fitting easily in the other's grip.

A moment later, Italy's eyes got even wider, mouth opening in a small O of fear. "America, behind you!" He screamed in utter terror, withdrawing and trying to blend into the closet. America began to turn quickly, but he was not turned enough when the weapon smashed on his head, Italy's scream piercing and loud in the silent home.

**Author's Note:**

> So, guys, this is one of my more liked fanfictions. Care to guess who it is? I love to hear your theories!


End file.
